On A Starry Summer Night
by johnsarmylady
Summary: "Today Scotland Yard announced that Sherlock Holmes has been cleared of any complicity in the kidnap of the children of American Ambassador Rufus Bruel. The announcement came as his friend and blogger Dr John Watson proved conclusively the existance of James Moriarty" A birthday fic for Starrysummernights


**Happy Birthday Starry - hope you enjoy this little birthday gift!**

Hauling himself out of the skylight, John clambered down the fire escape ladder that clung to the roof tiles, and dropped lightly onto the small area of flat roof just above his bedroom window. The sun had set a short while ago, but the heat of the day lingered all around, in the airless flat, in the petrol fumes that rose from the gridlocked roads, in the heady scent of lavender and roses that drifted up from Mrs Hudson's postage stamp garden.

Kicking off his trainers he spread out the duvet and pillow that he had carried out earlier, then in just his t-shirt and jeans he stretched out on top of it. Taking a slow, relaxing breath, John placed his hands under his head and gazed up at the stars filling the clear night sky, losing himself in its blue/black depths.

"I've climbed out here almost every clear night since you left Sherlock, wondering if my mum was right, if it's true that for everyone we lose a new star is born." John spoke softly, his voice not a whisper, yet clearly not meant for others to hear. "And every time I come out I hope to see that new star."

"I want to see it tonight, Sherlock; I want to see _you_ tonight. I want to tell you – need to tell you…" he paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "It's taken a while, but I've finally cleared your name. With a little help from our friends I've proved that Moriarty was real, that he was behind the kidnapping of those kids and all those other crimes that they accused you of."

A sad smile flickered around his lips, and he blinked away the tears misting his vision. Searching the sky above him he could see the constellation Ursa Major, and his smile broadened as he looked further to the west.

"Hey Sherlock," he laughed softly, "I may not have found you, but I've found your constellation – did you know you were a crab? Suited your mood sometimes – crabby, cantankerous and downright snappy…I miss that. I miss the arguments, the bullet holes in the wall… Jesus, but I miss you Sherlock."

John lay in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of London nightlife gradually fading, until it was no more than a distant hum in the background.

"There's been no-one since you – and if I tell you this, I just know you're going to get that 'Oh I'm brilliant!' look on your face, you smug git, but…well…even if I'd wanted to, there is no-one who could even come close to what you mean to me. I don't think I could love anyone like I love you." Again he laughed. "There, I've said it – just don't you dare smirk!"

Yawning and stretching, John wriggled his shoulders a bit deeper into the soft down of the duvet, his eyes following the occasional lights of a plane passing overhead, until gradually they closed, his eyelashes fluttering gently against his skin as he gave in to sleep.

From the deep shadows in the corner of the garden a figure moved, slowly uncurling himself from the crouched position he had maintained these past few hours, time that had been spent listening to the soft voice on the roof.

At first he hadn't been able to understand what was being said, but it didn't take long to filter out the background noise, to tune into that much loved voice, and what he heard gave him courage – gave him hope that he might be forgiven, because there was much to forgive him for.

Moving stealthily he crossed the garden, swinging the old army Bergen – a piece of the past that he had appropriated a while back, when the trouble was just beginning – onto his back and with cautious steps climbed up the drainpipe, all the while praying that it would hold his weight. Catlike and graceful he pulled himself onto the roof, edging carefully along until he too could drop onto the flat roof.

And here the figure paused, watching to see if his landing had disturbed the sleeping man, drinking in the sight of that familiar face. Easing the backpack from his shoulders, he placed it carefully out of the way, then kicking off his shoes he knelt down on the duvet, slowly stretching out alongside John, leaning up on his elbow so that he could get a better look at him.

Up close he could see the lines of strain that had not quite been erased by sleep, and his blond hair now had a sprinkling of silver. He'd had word of John over the years; he knew that the ex-army doctor had been working at St Mary's A&E, that he had made himself available to the homeless night shelters when they needed a doctor who would be discrete and understanding. And in his down time he would pore over the notes of the crimes that Moriarty had had a hand in, his determination to prove his friend innocent and genuine an unstoppable force.

He reached out, his hand hovering over John's face, and saw that it was trembling. Completing the movement, he gently cupped the older man's cheek, his thumb softly stroking the sensitive skin across his cheekbone. With a small smile, John leaned into his touch, then with absolute clarity he sighed "Sherlock" and he turned his head slightly to press a small kiss into his palm.

Unable to hold back any longer he lowered his head, capturing John's lips in a tender, heartfelt kiss. Moving his hand up to push through the soft blond hair, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding across John's lower lip. John responded, his lips parting to allow access, his fingers reaching up to stroke through the short curls while his left hand slid up to gently hold the pale slender neck.

Eventually they separated, and Sherlock looked down into John's face, holding his breath.

"Well, that certainly answered my wish!" Although his voice was light, there was wariness in John's eyes.

"I'm sorry John. I can explain."

"Are you back? I mean, really back? For good?"

Sherlock nodded. John's eyes closed and he loosed a shuddering breath.

"What now?" His hand found its way to Sherlock's chest, feeling his heart beat strong and steady.

Sherlock's head dipped back to steal another kiss, and his hand slid down John's side to grasp his hip, squeezing and pulling him close.

"Is this alright?" he whispered, his tongue flicking along the edge of John's ear

"Hmm? Yeah 's alright, more than alright," John struggled to think, especially when Sherlock sighed, his breath blowing hot against John's neck.

Placing a swift kiss on John's neck Sherlock lifted his head once more, and as he looked up John was sure he'd never seen a more beautiful sight than those moonlit silver eyes staring back down into his.

"John, I want…" his head lowered, his eyes travelled the length of the other man's body, unconsciously pulling him closer, feeling his obvious need.

"Since when do you need to ask?" Came the smiling reply, and with eager hands the doctor tugged at the thin hoodie, pulling it over Sherlock's head and feeling his breath whoosh out of his lungs at the ethereal glow of his skin, bathed in moonlight, pale and glorious. Later, closer examination would reveal the marks of his time away, but here, now, the curve of muscle and the flat planes of his stomach were all John Watson could see – all he wanted to see – all he wanted to touch.

Between touches and kisses, piece by piece their clothing was shed, their hands re-learning familiar textures, their mouths re-learning familiar tastes, their senses heightened by the cool breeze blowing across their naked bodies.

Manoeuvring himself so that his resurrected lover was laying beneath him, open and trusting, John lowered himself, entering with gentle half-thrusts, working a bit deeper each time, knowing that tomorrow they'd both be sore but seeing his own aching need reflected in the face of the other man.

Normally quite vocal lovers, the need for silence was both an exquisite torture and pleasure beyond anything they'd ever dreamed, and what they lacked in sound they made up for in touch and taste, softly stroking hands, nips and licks, the sensations building until both were teetering on the edge of the precipice.

It took just one look, and one word. Opening his eyes, John looked down into the face of the man he thought never to see again. At that very moment Sherlock arched his back, closed his eyes and whispered

"_John_"

And that was it. Like twin supernovas they exploded in orgasm, aftershocks shuddering through their bodies as they lay panting and spent. After a while, John reached for his t-shirt, gently cleaning them both before balling the soiled garment and throwing it to one side.

Pulling his Belstaff out of his backpack Sherlock spread it over their lower limbs, then curled himself around John, his head tucked into his shoulder, revelling in the feel of warm flesh beneath him and the sensation of strong fingers stroking through his hair.

"John?" there was a frown in his voice that matched the one marring his forehead.

"Hmm?"

"I expected you to be angry with me. I wasn't sure…"

"Wasn't sure of what?" The slow rhythm of his fingers through Sherlock's hair never faltered.

"Of my welcome. Wasn't sure you'd still want me, not after I'd let you believe I was dead, not after I'd made you watch."

"I am angry Sherlock, but I won't be angry forever. And in time I'll expect you to tell me all the reasons for this whole sorry mess, but…"

"But?"

"But not right now. Not tonight." Turning his head slightly he dropped a soft kiss on his lover's head. "Because you don't often get perfect starry summer nights like this."


End file.
